though i'm weak and beaten down (i'll slip away into the sound)
by theyellowumbrella
Summary: She presses a kiss to your cheek as she pulls you up and lets her lips linger for a second too long. You revel in her floral scent and marvel at the way her hair falls in front of her face and how her lips seem to be in a permanent state of smiling. / Stacie and Aubrey, post semis. PP1.
**A/N:** As I type this note, it is around eleven o'clock here in the UK. This means that there is around an hour until my birthday. Hooray! I wrote this on a whim just to test out this new Writer's Block program I downloaded but got very frustrated because I couldn't meet the limit of words I set for myself.

This was supposed to be an Aubrey-centric one shot and it ended up being Staubrey because I'm trash. Enjoy!

* * *

It must be a mistake. That's the first thing that runs through your mind when you see the scoreboard: it must be a mistake, because the Bellas can't have lost. You've come too far for the Bellas to have lost.

Chloe and the rest of the Bellas — bar Beca, of course — are all standing behind you, waiting anxiously for you to tell them the results. You can hear the low hum of nervous chatter coming from the girls, reminding you of your very first competition — the way you and Chloe had been so excited just to compete, never mind to win.

It's so different now. Now, it's all about winning. Second place is just as good as last, and none of it matters unless you win. Now, it doesn't matter how hard you work or how bad you want it. You have to play dirty, play hard, play however the hell you have to in order to make it out alive.

"Aubrey? What's the score?" comes Chloe's tentative voice, gentle as if she knows that something is off.

You open your mouth to reply, to say something — anything — but you come up empty. Your throat feels closed off, as if the results have left you inable to even speak anymore.

"Aubrey?" This voice doesn't belong to Chloe, but Stacie. "Come on, what's going on?"

"I ... We ..." you finally get out, but your mind blanks on whatever it is you could say to better this situation. "We didn't place."

"What?" You're not sure who asks.

"We didn't ... We didn't place. We don't — we're not going ... to Lincoln Centre."

"What do you mean?" Chloe asks, voice breathy, as if she's crying. She probably is.

"I mean ... we didn't place. We're not going through. This is ... this is the end. Of the Bellas, of ... everything."

"What?" is Chloe's choked reply. "No, this can't be the end. That isn't fair."

"I know."

The group disperses after a while, everyone leaving to deal with the news in their own way. You stay where you are — a few hundred yards away from the stage, where several technicians are dismantling the lights and all of the props — and try and steady your breathing, which is ragged and all over the place.

"Are you okay?"

You flinch when you hear the voice, which is raw and husky. It's familiar, but you can't place who it belongs to in your current state of disorientation.

"Huh?" you ask, keeping your head down. You blink a few times to rid your eyes of the tears that have gathered there, allowing them to spill down your face.

"I said, 'are you okay?'"

You look up, finding Stacie standing by the stairway. Her head is tilted and a soft smile is playing on her lips, as if it's there to comfort you more than anything else. She's changed out of her performance outfit and into a worn hoodie which has the name of her high school emblazoned on the front.

"Yeah, I'm ... Yeah."

"Really?" she asks. She makes her way towards you slowly, creeping like she's afraid of spooking you. "You don't seem okay."

"Well, I'm not," you answer sharply, regretting it a little when you see Stacie wince. "I mean ... the Bellas just lost. This was my one chance to redeem myself for last year — to prove to Alice and to my father that I could fix my mistakes — and to prove that I'm not a failure. But now it's ... it's over. Now, I'm going to graduate and I'm only ever going to be known as a failure."

"You're not a failure, Aubrey," Stacie tells you. "You tried your hardest. I mean, yes, you were a hardass, and yes, you pissed us all off most of the time, but you tried so hard to make us the best we could be. You never gave up, no matter how much we bitched and complained. Sure, we didn't win, but it's the thought that counts, right? You tried your hardest, and that's all you can do."

You scoff. It's not like you mean to, it just slips out before you can stop it. Stacie looks hurt, but she's clearly not going to leave, because she's propped herself up with the wall and is staring right into your eyes.

"I'm sorry," you say. "I didn't mean to ... It's just that ever since I was a little girl, everything I do has had to be perfect. Second place isn't good enough and first place is barely good enough unless I win by a landslide. I wasn't allowed to get As; only A pluses would cut it. Anything less was a failure."

"You know that that isn't how it works, right? That your dad's near impossible standards aren't something you have to hold yourself to for the rest of your life. If you try, you're going to die without ever really living."

"I know," you reply. "I know that I don't have to hold myself to his expectations. It's just that whenever I defy what he wants, I just see his face in my mind. He's always so disappointed in me no matter what I do."

"I don't really get it," she confides. "My dad ... he died when I was nine. And my mom ... she was a mess. I mean, don't get me wrong; she tried. God, she tried. But it was never good enough. I pretty much had to raise my little sister on my own until I left for Barden at the beginning of the year."

"How old is she?" you ask. You slide to the floor, the aching in your legs finally getting to you. Stacie slides down with you, shuffling over. She doesn't rest her head on her shoulder but instead lets it linger, making you yearn for the contact that you haven't had in so long.

"She's thirteen."

"Boy crazy yet?"

"Like most thirteen year olds," Stacie confirms with a laugh.

"Not me," you say, keeping your voice monotone.

"Really?"

"Yeah. I was mainly focused on schoolwork."

"No crushes whatsoever?" she asks, disbelief tinting her tone.

"I didn't say that," you say sheepishly. "There was this girl in my grade called Emily. She had the prettiest green eyes and this beautiful, long brown hair. Now that I think about it, she looked kinda like a younger version of you. Anyway, she was probably my best friend. She understood my thing with my dad and never pushed me to do stuff that he wouldn't let me do or I didn't feel I could. She was amazing. I was totally in love with her."

"What happened?"

"Well, on her fourteenth birthday I finally told her how I felt. We were having a sleepover at her house with two of our other friends, and she said that she loved me too but not like that. We kissed. It wasn't ... It didn't feel like the beginning of something; it felt like the end. We stayed friends for a while, but it wasn't the same. I wouldn't let her touch me or hug me or be too close because it hurt too much. I thought we could be friends but we couldn't. It was too weird."

"That's sad," Stacie says. She finally rests her head on your shoulder, causing you to tense up instinctively.

"Yeah, it was," you confirm. "It was really sad. She was my best friend, and then she was ... Well, it doesn't matter anymore. I haven't seen her since graduation."

"Have you loved anyone since then?"

You're not sure how to tell her about the times in your freshman year where Chloe would press you against your bedroom door and kiss you like her life depended on it, so you stay silent.

You're still not sure if that was love or if it was something else, but something inside of you twists at the memory.

Neither of you say anything else, but you sit together in a comfortable silence until the building manager comes to kick you out and you part ways.

She presses a kiss to your cheek as she pulls you up and lets her lips linger for a second too long. You revel in her floral scent and marvel at the way her hair falls in front of her face and how her lips seem to be in a permanent state of smiling.

"Have a nice evening, Aubrey," she says before she pulls away, and your eyes meet for a second before she leaves the building.

There's something in the pit of your stomach fluttering around that makes you feel an awful lot like you did when you were thirteen years old.


End file.
